Things of Value
by HumanTales
Summary: The Founders decide that they need a way to pass their values on when they are gone.


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Author's Note:** Beta'ed by the lovely Rakina.**  
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**Salazar Slytherin**

An item of both personal and intrinsic value, to be used in perpetuity to sort the youngsters into the same Houses they would choose when they were gone. Salazar snarled; he didn't have items of personal value. Things just weren't that important; power and influence were what he craved. He sat in his chair fiddling with his locket, and thought. It wasn't until the elf brought him his meat that he realised that he did have something of personal value after all: the locket.

He could still remember the making of the locket. It had been three seasons after his wife, Isabella, had died and he was working on a memorial for her. He'd wanted something he could wear, something that could hold a piece of her next to him, and something that was as close to indestructible as he could get. The only thing he could think of was a ring, but all of his designs looked too much like a poison ring to be acceptable. It was his apprentice who had come up with the idea of a locket on a chain. He could place a lock of Isabella's hair within it and keep it close to his heart.

Dionysus, his apprentice, had helped him create the piece. He had been a good pick for Salazar; hugely ambitious, determined to prove himself a better man than his father. The father was known as 'Mal Foi' because of his habit of breaking oaths whenever those oaths no longer suited him. The son was determined to make himself a name as a ruthless man whose oath, nevertheless, was good. Salazar had heard that due to his value he had lately been knighted near the stones in Salisbury. His wish to lose the father's name was still unmet. He might, however, be gaining a name for himself: the superstitious called him Angelus because of his pale colouring and skills with magic.

In making the locket, Salazar had obtained a mould from a goldsmith who hoped his son would one day attend Hogwarts. Salazar thought it likely, although the boy would probably be one of Helga's very hard workers. He had carefully melted the gold down to liquid, ensured that it was as pure as it was possible to make it, and cast a set of spells on it.

"What spells are you setting in the gold, Master?" Dionysus had asked.

Salazar wasn't certain if his question was from curiosity or power, but he answered it nevertheless. "I am setting no spells in this gold. I am ensuring its purity and its strength so that if, in the future, I or one of my descendents so wishes, it can contain the most powerful of spells. The more impurities of both metal and magic that are within the metal, the less able it is to hold a spell without the locket or the spell warping. I only wish a memorial for my Isabella."

It had all worked much better than he had planned. The gold was as pure as possible while still able to be used for jewellery. The main locket was large and sturdy; Dionysus demonstrated a little artistic talent in engraving the snake-shaped "S" for the front. When it was finally completed Salazar had excused his apprentice from his chambers. Alone at last, he took the lock of Isabella's hair he had been keeping and placed it within the locket. He melded the hair within with a spell and placed the chain over his head. For the first time since her death, he was able to weep for his beloved wife.

When Salazar woke the next day, he went looking for his infant son, to ensure that he grew up well, as befitted Isabella's child.

The decision was heart wrenching, and yet, the school was as much his child as his little boy was. Early one morning, Salazar approached Rowena in the herb garden, where she was typically to be found reading. "Rowena, I may have the item you requested."

"Tell me," Rowena asked, her blue eyes wide with delight.

Salazar pulled the locket from underneath his robes. At the sight of it, Rowena's eyes widened even further with shock. Her words were perhaps even more shocking to him.

"Don't take it off. I can't imagine we will need the sacrifice of such an item." She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When she opened them, she smiled again. "And how is your little son? I constantly have to pull him away from texts he should not yet be studying. He is quite the student."

Smiling in pride, Salazar said, "He is truly my son, constantly looking for ways to gain more power. I must regularly send him to Helga so that he doesn't get too high an opinion of himself."

Rowena laughed. "Does she have him clean the dishes or the stables?"

"Both," Salazar laughed. "As well as the floors, the chamber pots, and anything else that needs cleaning. Quite the tidy woman, Helga is."

They chatted for several more moments before Salazar took his leave. If it were his locket that was needed, it would mean that they needed Isabella's goodness to choose the students as well as their own preferences and that was no bad thing.

**Rowena Ravenclaw**

Rowena was proud of herself for her solution to the sorting of the students into the different Houses. She and Helga were still debating the idea of the sorting, but the men were both determined that their houses should remain separate. Typical.

She'd told the others that the spell required an item of intrinsic and personal value. It was true as far as it went, but the personal value could be in the idea as opposed to the actual item. She had nothing that would fit the criteria, so she was going to make one. And whatever happened, they were not going to use Salazar's! The idea gave her shivers.

As soon as she'd realised where her researches were leading she'd known what was best to use. In order to tell a child in what House they would live, what better than a quill? If done correctly, they could just put down a parchment with the list of names and have the quill write the house next to the child's name. Simple, elegant, practical and it shouldn't traumatize the little dears too terribly.

She called for Abraham. As the Head Student of her house, it was his duty, right and privilege to assist her. He was a lovely boy, but she worried about what would happen to him once he'd finished. If he was sensible, he would find a large, cosmopolitan city and set up shop as something other than a moneylender, but he wasn't likely to be sensible. The members of his family were mostly moneylenders, because it was frequently the only occupation they were allowed, and so he would follow in his father's footsteps. But he was the third son, so perhaps his father would permit him to become a rabbi. Rowena believed that was an honourable profession according to his people.

Like so many of their religion, they held themselves apart from their neighbours; the folk who lived in their village would say, "Look at them; they think they're princes!" and proceed to complain about the arrogance of the Jews. And to add insult to injury, the poor boy had a nose that was just . . . She shook her head; she had more important things to do right now than to worry about one unfortunate student.

While she sent him to fetch a cauldron and begin melting down the receipt she gave him, she went to her favourite raven and asked for a feather. As always, it turned into a bit of a negotiation, but he finally acknowledged that a fine one had just fallen and she could have it. She took it into her workroom and considered. Typically, she would add the nib and then set any spells she wished onto the new quill. Since she was planning on dipping it, that might not be the best way.

She and Abraham had a lovely debate about the theoretical points surrounding the timing of placing the nib. She finally won it, but she thoroughly enjoyed convincing Abraham that she was right.

She checked the contents of the cauldron: the silver, the herbs and the spells. Once she was satisfied, she carefully dipped the feather into the cauldron. After leaving it there for a count of 120, she pulled it out and placed it to dry.

The next morning, she returned and confirmed that the feather had dried. She placed the nib on the quill and finished the item with a spell for permanency. She couldn't help smiling as she imagined her quill, her beautiful quill, mightier than any sword, writing the child's House next to his or her name. Beautiful.

She couldn't help wondering what the others would choose.

**Helga Hufflepuff**

An item of personal and intrinsic value. Helga thought carefully of what she had that might meet those criteria.

An item of intrinsic value was comparatively simple. The dishes the school used in the dining room were hers. Helga had never begrudged the school the use of her things; it would have been wasteful for her to keep them for only her own use. After all, how many dishes did one woman use? And they made the table look lovely. The sight of the table at a feast brought a smile to her face; between the dishes and the food, the feasts were largely hers.

But how would a dish tell a child which of the four Founders would have chosen them? Water within it might turn different colours…? A rather pretty effect, perhaps, but it seemed rather tawdry.

Did she have anything else? There was some jewellery, but none of it was worth that much. Beads and colourful stones, pretty ribbons braided together, but little made of precious metal, and even less of gems.

Helga looked around her rooms. Most of what she had was infinitely precious to her, but there was little of intrinsic value. There was the table, made so carefully by a little boy who had always gone hungry. He'd given it to her once he was capable of making a living, his charms making his woodwork sturdy, strong and long lasting. Certainly the table could take a nearly infinite amount of abuse; it seemed to draw the occasional hex or curse away from the more fragile items surrounding it. Helga approved of that table; but was it intrinsically valuable?

The rest of her things were the same. Made from the bits that were otherwise useless, appealing to Helga's hatred of waste but not valuable as such. Just warm reminders of all the people Helga had known, and helped, throughout her life. They made her rooms comfortable and cozy, but they certainly couldn't be called valuable.

It would have to be one of the dishes. But which one? She couldn't give the platter that her grandmother said her father had brought home from one of his raids. That was an heirloom. Nor could it be the bowls her father had had made for her mother on their wedding day, or the cups made for the birth of herself and her brothers and sisters.

She spent the rest of the afternoon going through all of her dishes. Although most of them were valuable, they either meant nothing to her personally, or were family pieces that she couldn't bear to give away. Nothing seemed to be right.

Finally, she came upon the cup old Edward had given her last spring, when his latest grandchild had begun to study with her. The family was one of the few known for their magic; they were midwives and herbalists, and sometimes even healed the sick when the Church couldn't find out about it. Most of the local priests turned a blind eye to the family's 'witchcraft'; they were good members of the Church who attended Mass regularly and tithed well. Even to the priests, they were known as "Bons", good people.

The cup was comparatively small, but quite beautiful. It was made of gold, with two finely wrought handles and engraved with a badger. Edward had said that it had a spell of good luck cast upon it. Maybe it had; Helga didn't believe much in luck. Good, hard work was what was needed. Not that Edward actually disagreed; he'd been laughing when he'd told her how his family had debated the type of spell to cast on the cup during a family gathering. They'd decided that a simple good luck charm would cause the least amount of disruption in her life. Helga had laughed that, yes, she always seemed to have the luck she needed.

This would have to do. She had no idea how a cup would choose students for each house. Perhaps they'd use magic. She chuckled at the thought.

**Godric Gryffindor**

As they were splitting up to make their choices, Godric pulled Rowena aside for a moment. Although hardly an unintelligent man, he didn't read much and didn't have Rowena's vocabulary. Once she'd explained what she meant in enough detail, he thanked her for her discretion (a word she'd taught him), and went back to his rooms.

An item valuable to both himself and the world. That was more difficult than it sounded. Godric wasn't much for holding onto money; whenever he had some, he spent it. Or gave it away. It never stuck around for long and he never had anything to show for it. He'd never worried about it. When he was young he thought it likely he would die in battle, and when he got older . . . Well, it still didn't seem like something to worry about; he'd make do.

His sword was valuable, but it would be just plain foolish to give it up. Silver might not hold an edge, but that wasn't why he'd held onto it when Salazar had talked him into joining up with the others to create Hogwarts. It was useful when fighting certain types of creatures: vampires, werewolves and all kinds of evil beasties. No, he'd keep the sword. He might discuss enchanting it to protect the school; that would be a fine use for such a beautiful thing.

That was about it. He sat down in his chair, looked around his room and thought. There was nothing obvious sitting around, no bejewelled statue that his mother had given him, no magical talisman his father had bestowed upon him. People didn't tend to give him things, either. Mostly they fed him, or tried to marry their daughters to him. He grinned. If he'd wanted, he could have had as many wives as old King Solomon. Then, he'd probably have had lots of precious things sitting around.

He didn't think Rowena meant one of his children. None of them were nearby right now, anyway, but they weren't 'items' anyway, even if some parents seemed to think that's all their children were. They were blessings, and even valuable, but so much of that was in the surprises they brought to his doorstep.

Old Bear had understood that. Well, with fifteen of them, that wasn't so surprising. He sat back, remembering how he'd met Old Bear.

It had been the thirteenth child, and the seventh son, who he'd met first. The boy had been casting spells around, making the branches and rocks around him dance. Godric had watched, enjoying the boy's creativity and skill, when the boy had lost control of one of the rocks, which had flown straight for the boy's head. Not wanting to see him injured, Godric had pulled out his wand and stopped it, dead.

"Next time, be a wee bit more careful, boy," Godric had told him, doing his best to keep a stern look on his face. He didn't think he was very successful. "And who might you be?"

"Well, they haven't decided what to call me," the boy said, grinning. "I was baptized William, but they'd forgotten that my second brother was William, too, so now they just call me Wart. 'Cause warts are annoying, you know. My mum says they ought to call me Weasel 'cause I'm quick and into everything and I'll fight anybody, even if they're bigger than me. And sometimes I win!"

Godric had laughed. This boy had spirit! It was hard to tell how old he was, but he was long and gangling, with big hands and feet, a long nose, freckles everywhere and bright, red hair. He could probably 'weasel' his way into anywhere or anything he wanted.

The boy had taken him to his home and introduced him to his family. Old Bear was what Young Weasel would become: tall, massive, his hair thinning but still bright red. They were generous folk as well; they fed Godric as an honoured guest and put him on the best bed. Godric had tried to argue against that, but Matilda had insisted. "After all, it's not like he needs a bit of encouragement," she laughed. "I'll not tell you where most of them were started, but it wasn't in our marriage bed!" Her face was round, and most of her lines came from smiling. Or shouting, which she did quite a bit of.

He'd told them about Hogwarts, and they agreed that all of their children who showed signs of magic should be sent there. To commemorate his visit and their children's education, Old Bear had given him a staff as he'd left. It was a beautiful thing, carved with beasts and flowers and herbs, and the faces of all his family. Godric had used it ever since, and the years had softened the carving but brought out its character. Yes, this would be a worthy item for Rowena's latest idea.

**The Sorting Hat**

Rowena looked around at her friends and at the items they had supplied for the school, which were laying on a table. Looking at the items, she realised that she knew the story behind each one, and the generosity of her colleagues brought tears to her eyes. She took a deep breath to steady herself and cast the spell that would show the item best for their purpose.

None of the items glowed, which was what was supposed to happen, but Godric did. Rowena shook her head; the spell was supposed to cause the item to glow, not its owner. "Godric, please step away from the table. You're interfering with the spell."

Godric moved back with a grumble, but Rowena paid no attention to that. Godric was always grumbling about something.

Once he'd moved back behind the others, Rowena cast her spell again. None of the four items glowed, but the spell actually looked for Godric and caused him to glow.

"Does that mean it's my staff?" he asked.

Rowena shook her head. "I'm not sure. Here, hold your staff and I'll cast it again."

And again Godric glowed, but his staff didn't.

Salazar sighed. "What have you done to yourself this time?" he asked, sounding exasperated.

"It's not me!" Godric said, and then mumbled, "You shut up."

Rowena and Helga exchanged glances as they moved to stand between the two men. Salazar was glaring at Godric. "What do you mean, shut up?"

For once, Godric seemed to understand how he'd given offence. "Not you. M'hat. It got caught in a spell a while back, and ever since then, it's mouthy."

Rowena cast the spell again. The glow did seem brightest around Godric's head. "Put the hat on the table, Godric, and I'll try it again." This time, the spell worked properly. The hat glowed.

The four of them stared at the hat. Mixed in with the items they'd chosen, it was a sad sight. Thinking about it, Rowena realised the raggedy thing was on Godric's head most of the time he wasn't dressed up. It was tattered and patched, obviously done by Godric since the stitches were of all sizes and many different colours. It was far from the image Rowena had had, of something of value making the choices. On the other hand, Godric clearly loved the dirty old thing.

Once chosen, the most complex spells were those that would preserve it for the years to come. They each cast the spell that would give the hat the ability to know which of the four of them would choose any particular student. Once all that was done, it insisted on sitting on each of their heads, so it could be certain it wasn't missing anything. Helga insisted on some rather powerful cleaning charms before she would let it get anywhere near her hair.

When the next school term began, they waited anxiously to see if it would work. Rowena lowered the hat onto the head of the first student: Hannah, the abbot's daughter, already chosen by Helga. Their brand-new Sorting Hat thought for a moment and then called out, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Rowena exchanged happy smiles with her colleagues for a job well done.

Fin


End file.
